


It's a Rocky Road (but I choose no other)

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mentions of Criminal Sexual Conduct, OT3, Other, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is upset about some things he thinks he knows. A pub night with Stamford brings everything to a head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Rocky Road (but I choose no other)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amindaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amindaya/gifts).



> I don't own these characters. I make no money from this writing. 
> 
> Enormous thanks to LonghornLetters for her amazing work as beta and hand-holder. 
> 
> For Holmestice, Summer 2014, written for Amindaya.

There was a reason John chose Mike Stamford as his drinking partner that night. His old friend could be relied upon to cheerfully talk about his wife, their children, the football, anything really, for as long as it took for John to open up. And Mike was usually an excellent judge of just how long it would take, how many drinks would be required to loosen John’s reserve. John was tightly wound tonight, shoulders so tense his neck almost disappeared. Mike ordered up some boilermakers, and began dismantling the wall of reticence. After a couple of rounds, John began muttering darkly about Greg, and Sherlock, and something about having pulled a few long shifts at the clinic and just being too tired a couple of times and that really wasn’t a crime, was it? A reasonable man would’ve known that, would’ve understood, would’ve settled for a movie and reconnecting on some level other than the physical. Would’ve waited, dammit, not just gone off and gotten off with their other partner. Mike may have raised his eyebrows a bit, but he forebore pointing out that John had known Sherlock was unreasonable when he’d moved in with the man, long before embarking on the current three-way relationship. Mike bought more beer and whisky, talked about nothing much for a while. John drank steadily, his blue eyes grim and mournful by turns. There’d been a messy breakup during medical school, Mike and his mates hauling a younger and less haunted John Watson back to their student digs after he’d tried to fix a pain he couldn’t find in his books with the oldest cure known to humanity. The main difference between that boy and this man seemed to be the quality and cost of his chosen pain relief. A couple more rounds and John was off again. Maybe he’d wrenched his bad shoulder on that last case, and yeah, he was getting older, they all were, but for god’s sake he didn’t need coddling. Just a couple pain pills, really, not fussing . Not hot-water bottles and tucking in, then leaving him by the fireside like some broken down old grandpa. Who did Greg think he was fooling, anyway? John might be older than Sherlock, but he was younger than Greg.

There was a chirp, and they each reached for the nearest phone. Mike scanned the worried inquiry about his whereabouts, then realized he had the wrong mobile. John was holding his, the screen showing a picture of smiling toddlers, boy and girl, with Stamford’s soft eyes and their mother’s bright hair. He waved the phone almost angrily at Mike.

“There, see, you did it right. Found a nice woman, had a beau’ful family. ‘S what I shoulda done. Can’t be the extra... thing then, can you? No comin’ home to everyone talking ‘bout stuff happened before you came ‘round. Nobody saying ‘keep up, can’t you’ when they’re talking about cases you weren’t even there for. How ‘s I s’posed to know it was the stupid Lowery killings all over again? I was in Afghanistan. In a war, not solving some damn high-society case with Greg ‘strade.” He angrily tossed back his shot, then Mike’s. “It’s not that I mind that they’ve got a past together. I don’t. I don’t mind that part at all. ‘Course they have pasts. A man gets to a certain age, he ecshpecs...shecspets...he knows people have pashts.” His mouth pursed and he nearly crossed his eyes trying to look down his own nose to see why his lips weren’t cooperating. “My mouth’s gone all wrong. I think I maybe am a little drucked. Drunked. Drunk.”

Mike shook his head. “Nope. Definitely not a _little_ drunk. You are _very drunk_. Probably not fit to get yourself home.”

“Can’t go home. Sh’lock’s there. Know what he’ll do? He’ll look at me, he’ll shtare at me like this-” John attempted to mimic Sherlock’s penetrating stare and dissolved into giggles. “He’ll look at me like he does, ‘n he’ll try to deuce…dead…he’ll say what he thinks is why I’m drunked. An’ you know wa’s worst of it? Worse part is, he. Will. Be. Wrong.”

“Will he?” Stamford kept his voice steady, encouraging, lining up the shot glasses to get a rough estimate of John’s intake. It seemed they were getting to the crux of the situation, and none too soon.

“Yep.” At attempt at popping the final consonant failed messily, and John giggled again before explaining. “See, he’ll say it’s because I’m hurt, or jealous. But thas’ not it. Nope. I-” he drove his thumb into his own chest, hard enough to leave a bruise- “John…Hamisshhh…Watshon…do not get jealoush. Maybe I get sad, but thas’ diff’nt.”

“I dunno, pal. Sounds like jealousy to me.”

“Nope. Look, you’re married, right?”

Mike waggled his be-ringed hand. “You were there. Gave us a very nice waffle maker.”

John nodded. “Right. Waffles. Do you matter to them, same ‘s they do to you?”

“Do I matter to waffles?”

“No! Your wife, your kids. Do they need you, same’s you need them?” John was staring at him, blinking very seriously.

“Well, yeah. We’re a family. Course we matter to each other.”

John nodded sagely. “See, tha’s my problem. I need them more ‘n they need me. Geg brings him files, letsh him on cases. Shlock solves cases for Grrr-egg, keeps things sweet for him at work. They don’ need me hangin’ round. S’prised, really. Thought they’d figure ‘t out sooner. They can dump me whenever. Prolly talkin’ bout it right now. ‘God, why’d we ever take up with him?’ ‘Not even a good shag anymore. Pathetic.’”

Mike winced. “I’m sure that’s not it. Greg’s a stand-up guy; he’d tell you if there was something not right. And Sherlock, well...” Mike’s voice petered out while he tried to think of some defense for the man.

John snorted noisily. “Don’ say heesh a great guy. ‘M not THAT drunked.”

“No, generally he’s an arse. But he’s not plotting against you with Greg. Look, they’re probably worried. Why don’t you text them, tell them I’m seeing you home?” He pushed John’s phone across the table. John grabbed for it, squinted at the screen, turned it right-way around, and put it back down again. “Too spinny.” He laid his head down on the phone, let his eyes close. “You dial, an’ I’ll talk, ‘kay?”

“You bet, mate. You bet.” Resigned, Mike pulled out his own phone to warn John’s partners of the condition in which he would be returning to Baker Street.

~~**~~

John woke alone, propped onto his right side in a darkened room. A bin had been placed strategically next to the bed. He groaned, flopped onto his front, pressed his forehead into the pillow. Considered smothering himself, at least until the fetid smell of his own breath washed over his face and set his stomach rolling. Sit up? Sitting up seemed the proper thing to do but his head pounded at the very thought. Start small then; try rolling over. He moved in tiny increments with suitable breaks in between. Belly to hip. Whimper, deep breath, push onto shoulder. Groan, deep breath, collapse onto back. “Oh, my GOD.” Sweat broke out over his body, and everything hung briefly in a tentative balance before settling into passive misery. The faintest of chirps drew his eyes to the nightstand, but there was nothing on its surface save a tumbler of water and a blister pack of pain-killers. With one shaking hand he slipped the drawer open and found his phone, fully charged and blinking with a text message.

_Text Greg when you receive this. He’s going on about alcohol poisoning. It’s distracting. -SH_

Not at home, then. Not at home, and together. Of course.

_Where are you? Case? -jw_

The reply came from Greg’s number. _Crime scene. Bad one.-G_

_Where? Want me to come? -jw_

Sherlock’s reply came first. _Not necessary. New forensics team surprisingly competent._ It was followed almost immediately by Greg’s response: _We’ve got it covered. Bet this guy’s in better shape than you are right about now._

Well then. He pulled the duvet up, grabbed Sherlock’s pillow in its high thread-count pillowslip, and curled into a tight ball. Sleeping it off...a better medical breakthrough than antibiotics, than aspirin, than vaccines. Sleep, wonderful sleep. It’d work for the hangover, anyway. Not so much his aching heart, but then neither had the booze, really. Incurable, in all probability. No sooner had his head eased off enough that he could sag into the bed, than his phone chirped again. Twice in succession and much louder this time; he’d forgotten to return it to the drawer.

_Drink the water, take the tablets. A shower wouldn’t go amiss. -SH_

_Do as he says. We need to talk. -G_

“Shit.” He thought about that for a while. Last night had probably been the last straw, coming home ugly-drunk. “Fuck. Also, dammit to hell. And back.” Would it be better to pretend he didn’t know? Or to have his bag packed, ready for a dignified retreat? Yes, probably better to salvage a little dignity. Weary, sick in body and heart, John dragged himself to the wardrobe and pulled out a duffle. He filled it with enough clothes for a week, which was all the time he could spare for finding a new place to stay, then headed into the bathroom. Hot water might clear his head a bit. He could sort of see their point, he thought, looking into the shaving mirror. Blood-shot eyes, sunken in a grey and saggy face. Chapped lips, dirty-blonde and grey stubble. A rough landscape, dry and craggy like nine miles of desert road. God, no wonder they’d gone off him. He pushed the mirror back against the wall, and stepped into the shower. Not much he could do about his face, but the smell rising from his abused body could at least be washed away.

~~**~~

He’d made it to the sofa when they got home, breezing in smelling of kung pao beef and rain, stashing white waxed cartons in the fridge. Greg filled the kettle and asked John if he’d eaten anything yet.

“Not hungry.”

“Not surprised.” He all but slammed two slices of bread into the toaster, had to toggle the switch more than once when his vehemence made it refuse to catch. “Would you like this with butter, jam, or dry?”

God, how pathetic did Greg think he was? He could take care of himself, thank you very much.

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Yeah? Is that so? Is that fucking well so? Because you didn’t seem to be taking care of yourself last night. Nor for the past month or so, not since you came back from Edinburgh. You’ve been sulking and brooding, and we’ve waited. We’ve let you ‘take care of yourself’ until you went out and got so drunk that it took three of us to get you up the damn stairs and into bed. We are DONE letting you take care of yourself, John.” The toaster popped, and Greg slapped the browned slices onto a plate. “You can have this with butter, or with jam, or dry.”

“I don’t want your sodding toast.”

“Fine. Dry.” Greg strode across the kitchen, slammed the plate onto the coffee table. “You’re going to eat that toast, and drink some tea, and then you are damn well going to tell us what happened in Edinburgh. Sherlock, is the tea ready?”

But Sherlock had spotted the duffle waiting by the door. He pointed to it and said, “He doesn’t have to tell us, Greg. Clearly, he met someone. Someone from his past? Yes, that must be it. It seems he made his choice last night, and we’ve lost out.”

John would never have believed Sherlock could be so utterly, devastatingly wrong. Before he could muster a response, Greg spoke, staring at the bag, icy and calm and dangerously quiet.

“Is that so? Well, then, I guess you’re right. You don’t want my toast. You don’t want anything from us, do you? Fine. Fine, then. Go. Just, before you leave, know this. It would’ve been kinder not to drag it out, kinder not to have started this with us at all, when Sherlock and I made it clear we were in for the long haul. You let us believe that you were, too, and I never would’ve thought you had such cruelty in you. You can leave your key with Mrs Hudson, if you’re man enough to tell her about your choice.”

The words pounded into John, throbbing in his head and squeezing his chest. He stood up, sniffed, took one slow, careful, breath. Another. And there, there was the anger, sliding oily and viscous over the ache. There were the words he needed. “My choice? What in hell makes you think any of this was my choice? This isn’t what I want. What I wanted, what I thought I had, was two people who wanted to be with ME, as much as with each other. Every day, even when I’m tired or sore or in a filthy mood. Not just if there’s nobody better on tap, not just when our moods line up. That’s on you. So don’t you dare say this is my choice. You’ve already made the decision; I’m just acting on it.” The bag was a heavy weight on his shoulder, but he didn’t notice it any more than he heard Sherlock’s scarcely breathed ‘no’ when he began wrenching at the doorknob beneath his hands. “Dammit, why won’t this door open? God, just...shit.” Greg had grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms, the duffle wedged awkwardly between their bodies, as he dragged him around to face Sherlock. Sherlock who stood in the kitchen, one hand raised in a silent plea and tears standing in his eyes.

“John.” Greg’s voice, husky and breathless in his ear. “John, I’m going to let you go. And you’re going to go sit on the damn couch, and we’re going to discuss this.” He raised his voice slightly so Sherlock could hear. “Nobody is going anywhere tonight, not even to the loo, until we’ve had this out.”

He gave a quick squeeze, then released John all at once and gave him a none-too-gentle shove onto the couch. Sherlock followed Greg’s pointing finger, dragging over a chair and perching on it as if it were made of glass. Greg picked up the disputed toast and carried it to the kitchen, returning with glasses of water for everyone. He took the opposite end of the sofa, carefully not touching either of the other men. “Okay then. John, let’s start with you. What happened in Edinburgh?”

“That’s not the right question, Greg. You’re making assumptions again.” Even in the depths of an emotional firestorm, Sherlock managed to sound superior. Greg waved him into the conversation.

“Did something happen in Edinburgh that made you doubt our relationship?” For someone so emotionally stunted, John thought, Sherlock sure knew how to get down to the central detail.

“No.” He was tempted to leave it there, but a look at Greg made it clear that wouldn’t be allowed. Fine. They’d asked for it. “It was afterwards. The conference was boring, and you were on that blackmail case. I decided to surprise you, to come home early. When I got here, you were...otherwise engaged. I guess you’d finished the case, and were celebrating.”

Greg’s brow was furrowed in confusion, but Sherlock’s eyes widened in recognition. “You heard noises, coming from the bedroom, that convinced you we were having sex.”

John nodded.

“And then you heard someone say something. Something that hurt you, that made you doubt your place in our partnership.”

God, was he going to have to relive it right down to the second? “Yes, fine. Yes. YES, damn you. Greg said he was glad I wasn’t home yet, and you agreed, and there was something about it being better kept between just the two of you. That it wasn’t something I’d ever be able to understand, and it would just upset and confuse me. And then I...I left. I spent the night at a hotel, and came back the next day like I’d been supposed to.”

Greg sighed. “And pretended nothing was wrong. Badly, but you tried to anyway.”

“What was I going to say? How would you have liked me to broach the subject? ‘Hey, guys, I heard what you said and I think we need to renegotiate the boundaries because you seem to think I can’t handle a little kink?’ Crap.”

“That’s exactly what you should have said. Because then we could have told you that we weren’t having sex, we weren’t even enjoying ourselves.” Greg leaned forward and laid his hand over John’s ankle. “We were watching a video feed, you idiot. A video feed that implicated Sherlock’s client in the very thing she claimed she was being falsely blackmailed for.” John looked at Greg, searching for any sign of a lie. He saw only regret.

“It was just a video?”

Sherlock coughed lightly. “Hardly ‘just’. The people in it were behaving very badly indeed. Greg and I were both appalled, and we’re somewhat more jaded than you are.” He shuddered. “I regret the rift that the circumstances have caused, but I cannot regret that you did not witness the acts in question.”

The room was silent for a long time. Greg and Sherlock alternated between looking at each other and watching John, who was gazing down at his hands. Finally, Sherlock, having exhausted his patience, ventured to call his name. John startled, raised his head and looked at them with anguished eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve really messed it up, and I’m sorry.”

Greg wasn’t finished with him, though. “You really did, you know. Pretty big misunderstanding. But honestly, I think that was just the tip of the iceberg. What you heard was suspicious, sure, but I don’t think you’d have believed what you did if you hadn’t already been feeling vulnerable.”

John sighed, picked up his water and drank deeply while he considered how to phrase his reply. “I guess I was feeling old, and rickety, and...and...oh, I don’t know. ’Cared for’ rather than ‘cared about’. If I’m tired, or achy, I don’t need a blanket over my knees and a hot water bottle and the remote in reach and then everybody leaving.” He pressed his lips together, tried to calm his breathing. “I just want to be together. To watch a movie or read and know that you’re near. Do our own things, but together.” He looked beseechingly at Sherlock. “You’re always moving, always doing, and I understand that you get bored, I really do. I don’t mind if you’re playing your violin, or doing research, or running an experiment. But the last few times, you...you left. Both of you. I felt like you didn’t even want to be in the same room with me anymore, like I was old and used up, and you couldn’t stand the sight of me. And then you were going on and on about cases you’d been on together before I came back to London, and I try to keep up, you know I do, but I can’t. Not when you’re talking in shorthand, about cases I’ve never heard of and people I’ve never met. If I ask for an explanation you make that face- no, Sherlock, you do- like I’m the stupidest thing ever to crawl out from under a rock.”

“John. You know I am not good at these things. I thought we agreed at the outset to talk about what we were feeling? That it was the only way this was ever going to work between us?” Sherlock’s words were accusatory, but John heard the fear beneath them. Fear that things had been broken beyond repair.

“It seemed so silly. I didn’t want to be…” Clingy? Needy? How best to explain it? “Demanding. Difficult. High maintenance.”

Greg gave him an arch look. “Right. How’d that work out for you?”

“Badly. Really, really, fucking badly. But I’d like to fix it...if you two think we can.” If he hadn’t destroyed their trust. “If it helps, I wasn’t running TO anyone else. I just thought my behavior last night was the last straw. That when Greg said we needed to talk, he meant you two needed to tell me it was over.”

“You decided we weren’t worth fighting for.” God, when had Sherlock Holmes, of all people, gotten better at these discussions than John?

“No. I thought I’d already lost. Didn’t know I was even fighting, and had already lost.”

Greg held up both hands. “So, and correct me if I get this wrong, you felt unloved and unlovable. In an effort not to make yourself even MORE unlovable, you said nothing. Which made you feel more unloved.” Greg drew a circle in the air before him. “We could see something was wrong, but you weren’t talking to us, and we’re not mind readers, so we were feeling like you didn’t trust us enough to let us help. Have I got this right so far? Sherlock, am I on the right track?” They both nodded. “So, I think what we need to do next, is come up with a way for John to say what he needs, to let us know he trusts us with his feelings, and ways for us to show him that he is loved, deeply and truly, and cared about. To prove out that trust.” They all considered that for a long moment. When he’d gotten agreement all the way around, Greg continued. “But we’re not doing that tonight. Tonight, we need to change the sheets, and get in bed, and be together.”

Sherlock lifted his chin, held up a long finger. “Just one more thing, before we follow your excellent plan. I dislike stating the obvious, but I think in this case it might be the best course. Greg, do you wish John to leave?”

Greg’s eyes were warm with approval, dark and earnest. “Absolutely not. Long haul, remember? What about you?”

“As you say. I am in this for the long term. And John? Do you wish to leave?”

Weak with gratitude for this second chance, he said fervently, “No. God, no. Please. I want to stay, I want to fix this.”

“Then bring your duffle. We can unpack your things, while you make the bed.”

John turned off the lights on his way through the sitting room to retrieve his bag, and closed the bedroom door firmly behind him. No doubt the coming days would be difficult, but the challenge, having been clearly defined, no longer seemed insurmountable. They were together, they wanted to stay that way, and that was reason enough for hope.


End file.
